


Sharing a bed

by aeryn_sun



Series: The tropiest of fanfic tropes - the Cardinal & Delorme Edition [2]
Category: Cardinal (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, John and Lise's Panties, Masturbation, Morning After Akwardness, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension, accidental snuggling, showering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeryn_sun/pseuds/aeryn_sun
Summary: And there was only one bedroom. And only one bed. They dropped their bags simultaneously by their sides, giving each other a blank look.‘I’m going to kill him.’ Lise spoke first.John simply grunted.
Relationships: John Cardinal & Lise Delorme, John Cardinal/Lise Delorme
Series: The tropiest of fanfic tropes - the Cardinal & Delorme Edition [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908787
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Sharing a bed

**Author's Note:**

> In my defense, I've been really fried the past week and it shows. Incapable of anything but silliness. So out of character there's practically no character. Sorry, not sorry *posts and runs*

It was September and Delorme and Cardinal had to head down to Toronto to oversee an autopsy. They would be done late and would need a hotel room. Last minute. In the middle of the Toronto Film Festival, as Constable Fox helpfully pointed out. It had also been Constable Fox ‘who knew someone he could call’ and who had arranged for their lodging.

So here they were. Fox had made arrangements for the key to be left for them beneath the flower pot outside the tiny cottage that was just half an hour’s drive out of the city. What Fox had not mentioned was that ‘someone’ was his elderly great aunt Hilda and that for some reason or other, he had failed to mention to her that the two detectives who needed a room were actually a woman and a man. She _would_ have had foldaway guest bed.

They were tired after the long drive down, four hours in autopsy and waiting for lab results for another three while they went out to grab a quick dinner. So when they finally found themselves outside their lodgings for the night, well past midnight, they were more than ready for a shower and more importantly a warm bed. And that was precisely the problem.

The cottage was tiny and sparsely furnished. A small kitchen table with a set of chairs and where a vase of flowers sat and two coffee mugs had been set out already. A small living room with two large armchairs and a small table. And there was only one bedroom. _And only one bed_. They dropped their bags simultaneously by their sides, giving each other a blank look.

‘I’m going to kill him.’ Lise spoke first.

John simply grunted.

‘I am going to kill him.’ She repeated.

‘Look, I can just sleep in one of the armchairs.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, John. I won’t let you and your sore neck sleep in that armchair.’

‘Well, I’m not going to let a lady sleep in an armchair.’

Lise huffed at his use of _‘Lady’_ and rolled her eyes at him.

‘Fine.’

‘Really?! You’ll take the bed, no argument!?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I meant, if _you’re not_ sleeping in the armchair and _I’m not_ sleeping in the armchair, I guess we’ll just have to _share_.’

He gave her a crooked smile. ‘Seriously?’

‘We’re _partners_. It‘s big enough. There‘s two blankets. It’ll be fine.’

‘Right.’ John acquiesced, too tired to argue.

He regretted it the minute she asked ‘Can I have the shower first?’

He’d barely nodded his agreement when she’d disappeared and he heard the shower running minutes later. And he sat on the edge of the bed, taking his shoes off and imagining his partner under the spray of the warm shower. His very naked partner. His very naked partner he tried not to think about, whose hair he tried not to smell, whose gentle swell of breasts and soft roundness of her buttocks framed by her small hips he’d become an expert at ignoring. Hiding behind procedures, black professional pants, stern bun and a massive gun, that was much easier than when her hair was _down_ and she was going to be sleeping mere centimeters from him and he could hear every breath she drew.

She emerged from the bathroom, smelling of fresh mint toothpaste and some sort of fancy hairdresser‘s shampoo, wrapped in a much too small towel, black straps of what looked to be a tank top peeking out of the top and seemingly endless slender legs below. Dear God help him, those legs.

‘Sorry.’ She muttered sheepishly. ‘Didn’t think I’d need PJs.’ She said blushing.

‚S‘kay‘ John mumbled, trying not to stare, but also trying to act nonchalant and failing miserably. ‚I‘ll ... uhm ... just ... grab a quick one myself.‘ He said, fleeing to the bathroom.

Which, as it turned out, was worse. Much worse. The intensity of her in the room was overwhelming. The smell of her shampoo was everywhere, the one he had only ever picked up on when she leaned a bit too closely over his shoulder when he wanted to show her something on his computer screen. Or how he knew where she was when they entered a building, weapons drawn and she brushed past him, her soft touch letting him know she was right behind him and would cover his next move. And fuck, those legs. Yep, he definitely needed a cold shower to stop the blood flowing to his nether regions. It was a good thing that he wasn‘t 20 anymore or he would have had a full raging boner by now.

He took off his shirt and pants and hung them on the back of the door and took a step towards the toilet bowl for a piss. Dick in hand, he stopped short when he spotted something black lying on the floor. He bent down to pick it up out of reflex, the way he picked up after Kelly who left her socks strewn over the living room whenever she visited. Only he wasn‘t holding a dirty sock, he quickly realized. And instead of dropping the corpus delicti, his fingers tightened around the silky and lacy tiny piece of fabric and his dick tightened in response. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Shit. Shit. There were images and smells he couldn‘t get out of his head now.

He turned on the shower and stepped under the spray, staring down his body as he let the water run over his head. In a frustrated move, he washed his face down with one long wipe of his hand. He couldn‘t. He shouldn‘t. He stared down his long body. He felt the tension down to his balls and his cock was straining to be touched. A cold shower wasn’t going to be enough when he had to slip into bed next to her - there was no way he could hide his very very hard dick. He was going to have to take care of this now.

He groaned, closing his eyes in surrender and pinching the bridge of his nose and running his hand through his wet hair, before dropping it. It lingered over his stomach playing with the hair below his belly button and following the trail down. Groaning again, half in apology for what he was about to do with her in the next room, he grabbed his hard shaft and started stroking it, long and slow. There, mechanical, he just needed to rub it out. No need to jack off to his partner‘s image.

The thought of his partner brought an immediate onslaught of sensations and images. That silky and lacy thong. He grunted as he thrust his hips forward and tightened his grip and sped up his movements. And Jesus, those legs under that towel. And the images came unbidden, invading his thoughts. She‘d been in here, minutes before, undressing.

Probably taking her socks off first, then sliding the zipper of her suit pants down and sliding her pants down those milky long legs. Folding them neatly and setting them down on the lid of the toilet. He thought about what that black thong looked like on her and imagined dragging it down her legs himself. And the thought of his partner, naked legs and a patch of red hair at the apex of her thighs and starting to unbutton that white blouse, made him grab the base of his cock and start pumping in earnest. Could he ever look at her again without imagining her dropping that white blouse followed by reaching behind and unclasping her white lacy bra and stepping into the shower with him?

He started thumbing the head of his dick, the wetness of the water making it slick and the only thing he could think about was if her mouth sucking him off would feel this good. And that thought was too much, imagining running his hands through her wet hair as she tongued the head of his dick, followed by her lips tightening all around him, sucking him in. He threw his head back and canted his hips forward. ‚Ah, shit.‘ he moans loudly. He‘s was so close, his erection leaking and when she asked quietly if everything was alright, the sleepy, sensual French lilt and thinking about those big, bright hazel eyes staring up at him, he came, trying to muffle his moans.

„John?“

„Yeah. Fine. Hit my head.“ he replied. Shutting off the water. He was still panting.

„John?“ She said, louder, but in a sing song lilt that made his ears burn with shame and desire. „You left your stuff out here.“

„Can you ... uhm ... bring me my bag.“

He heard creaking and a soft knock on the door, before it opened a crack. She heard him breathe heavily in the bathroom. She held out his bag and he reached for it, having barely stepped out of the shower. „Thanks.“

By the time he‘d put on a pair of pyjama pants and a henley, she‘d long slipped back into the bed and when he stepped out of the steamed up bathroom, he could see the outline of her legs underneath the covers and her breasts just above covered by a tank top.

“So.” He murmured quietly.

“Just get in. I won’t bite.” Her accent making her teasing sound practically dirty and maybe he wished just a little that she would.

So he threw back the covers and the bed dipped heavily when he sat down and creaked in protest when he slid under the covers. He lay stretched out on his back, feet dangling off the end of the bed. He was grateful that he was dozing off quickly, blaming the late hour and the warm shower and not the fact that the idea of his partner lying innocently next to him sucking him with that perfect mouth had just given him a mind-blowing orgasm.

Lise, on the other hand, had not and she found it hard to fall asleep. She was cold and she was ruminating and that she could sense his warmth and he smelled like, well, John, didn't help matters. She was horny and restless and fell into a fitful slumber, but would wake up and toss and turn, but not enough to realize that she was closing the gap, drawn near by his warmth. At first it was just her hand that had ended up squarely on his chest, bunching in the fabric. He woke, briefly, covering the icicle with his warm hand. The next time he woke from her restless tossing and turning, she'd turned around and had snuggled her back against his side. He'd turned slightly, so that he managed to fit his entire frame on the bed, stealing some of her space. It wasn't like she was using it, curled into him. The next time he woke, it was nearly 6am and they had wanted to set off early. And she was practically plastered across his sprawled body. Her head was resting half on his shoulder, an arm thrown over his chest, her elbow grazing his stomach and she'd stuck a leg (Jesus, those legs) between his and damn, he could feel the moist warmth of her crotch rubbing against his leg. He didn't dare move or breathe or he would have a hard issue on his hands. And he was still sleepy and it was nice and warm and cozy and well, he'd better not move.

Finally, he could tell she was waking up, stirring against him and equally sleepy and warm and cozy, until the fog around her sleep-addled brain had lifted and she'd realized who she'd snuggled up against. She awkwardly extricated herself from his warmth, slipping out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom. By the time she emerged, fully dressed, he'd put on his clothes and got the coffee going. They headed out in the wee hours of the morning and it was the quietest and longest and definitely most awkward car ride in their entire history. She didn't kill Fox, in fact, neither had said a word about how they'd spent the night and no one asked, too busy with all the leads their trip to Toronto had uncovered. When Lise finally made it home that night, she still smelled him on her tank top and couldn't help getting herself off after itching for release all day. And John? He was beyond embarrassed to find that he'd apparently stuck that silky and lacy black thong in his pant pocket and hoped she'd think she'd left it at the Cottage, as there was no way in hell he was giving that back to her. He couldn't look her in the eyes for over a month.


End file.
